fame, at last. they say dogs don't dream of fame. but 'they' are all human beings. those that say things. what do they know of canine fantasy? of course, world wide recognition comes at a price. they put electrodes in his skull, they put instruments in places where a dog doesn't want instruments, they dressed him up in a space helmet. dogs look silly in space helmets. but heroism beckoned. and those that see it beckon and turn away spend the rest of their lives dreaming of where it might have lead them. they told him: 'cmon, big fella. an intergalactic pilgrim; a missionary for our planet; the embodiment of the human..er that is... earthling hope for better things' (they said this in russian. because they were russian. which is a good reason to speak russian). and they gave him steak. the finest steak. 'plenty more where this came from.. no more scavenging around dustbins for YOU, big guy. the best restaurants; the hottest bitches; the comfiest sofas; the fastest cars - and you can stick ya head out the window any time you want to..' they told him this was just a preliminary. the next time the rocket flew, it would go to the moon. and it would be on the television. (at this point they showed him a television, because he didn't know what one was. being a dog, he wasn't all that impressed by it, but that didn't stop them trying). the humans would love him, they'd tell their dogs about him. he'd be the first Living Animal Legend. the world would be his! and, above all this, he was doing the earth the greatest favour any living being could do it. he was helping the scientists look for The Answer. the scientists told him this, although they had all read their darwin and they believed they already knew what The Answer was. he was acting for the good of his fellow beings. the politicians told him this, because they had all read their marx and knew he sounded like he had The Answer. if the priests had been allowed near him, they would have told him he was getting closer to god. they had all read their bibles and knew they really knew what The Answer was. none of that means much to your average dog, but then, this wasn't your average dog. this was a Canine Hero. his mother told him to bark, loudly, when he got to the moon, so she'd know he had got there okay. his personal trainer reminded him of the importance of exercise - to make sure he lolloped around the space-ship at least three times a day. his friends looked a bit sad, and said they hoped he wasn't gone for too long. they were all invited to watch him depart, as he climbed up to the cockpit. the russian space-agency clapped and cheered as he was strapped in. the american space agency growled and jeered, and wondered why THEIR dogs weren't this brave. the general public were told to be impressed, and, before long, were impressed. and the rocket left the earth. and the rocket entered the void. david bowie once wrote a song: 'floating in a tin can far above the moon' of course, this was years later, and it was never a Top Dog Tune anyway. so it didn't occur to our hero to reflect on the song, and conclude that whoever had written it had no idea.- there is a loneliness that is not quantifiable in words. there is a loneliness that stems from the feeling of being somewhere that nobody else has ever seen. there is a loneliness that comes of drifting away from what you've been assured is real, never knowing if you'll come back into contact with it again. there is the loneliness of finding out you've been lied to. these are the causes, not the feeling itself. if words could befriend the feeling through expression, it would no longer be so lonely. a tiny capsule. easily forgotten about. a point was proved. the scientists and politicians felt happier. the priests shuffled uneasily in their seats and muttered about Divine Glory. the dogs of the world were told little about it. it isn't always wise to inform the masses. a tiny capsule. the occupant puts his head on his paws, trying folornly to scratch out the electrodes, hoping for the sanctity of either sleep, or madness, and finding neither. not yet. not until the final sleep which, even now, reaches out a solitary finger.. a tiny capsule. perhaps it fell back to earth, at some point. into the sea, or at a place where only poor, foreign, expendable people lived. the human race moved on. it dreamed new dreams - some of which were constructed on this first, original, dog's dream; some of which were more about destruction than construction. if this were a film, this would be the point where the camera pans out, and does a 180 degree turn, up towards the stars. a distancing shot. away from the sorry carcass, consumed by the flames that rise from crumpled metal, and up to better things. every hero must fall. so it is written, by those that write things. nobody told him that. nobody said that, when the hero falls, another will be sought to take his place. truth is expendable, when dreams are at stake. every night, though she is long dead, his mother howls at the place where she thinks he has gone. you can see her, sillhouetted on the cliff-top, face angled up towards the moon. perhaps she tells him to beware the dreams of others perhaps she tells him not to trust people that promise him the moon. perhaps, like every mother, she hopes he's safe, and happy, and a good little soldier. the moon watches her, unfeelingly. the planets care little for these beings that scurry across them. there will be more heroes, more soldiers, more liars, and she'll go on, regardless, till the day all the planets fall, crashing into the sun. ---------------------------------------------------------- on a somewhat different note: CHICKFACTOR. that'll be nice, won't it? anyone up for a bevvy before/after/at some point over that weekend? should there be a picnic on sunday? should someone (not me) organise it?? should we accept that its nearly october and the best place to meet might be a pub? sort it out, please, boys and girls, and report back to me. xx ian +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. 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